


Recuperation

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Asexuality Spectrum, Asphyxiation, Dubious Consent, Episode: s02e09 A Bitter Pill to Swallow, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Oedipal Issues, PWP, ace!Ozzie, not as kinky as you might expect - sorry!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:41:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6904474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ed helps a wounded Oswald take a bath, and suggests an unorthodox means of aiding his recovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recuperation

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Оздоровительные процедуры](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14037801) by [104_tarsiers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/104_tarsiers/pseuds/104_tarsiers), [AlGhoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlGhoul/pseuds/AlGhoul), [grand_theft_karma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grand_theft_karma/pseuds/grand_theft_karma)



> my first foray into writing Gotham... (so, go easy on me I guess?)
> 
> now with AMAZING [accompanying art](http://littlehollyleaf.tumblr.com/post/150224246622/riddlelvr-the-more-you-struggle-ed-tells-him) OMG! <3  
> 

“I can be given or stolen, but never held. Useless to one, but bliss for two. What am I?”

Oswald’s lips twitch at the corners, just for a moment, before he quashes the show of fondness and shakes his head.

Not that Ed can see him, positioned behind Oswald as he is, but the man is frighteningly intuitive and Oswald wouldn’t put it passed him to be able to sense hidden truths through the back of your head or the set of your shoulders.

And to have Ed suspect, even for a moment, that Oswald was growing used to, even taken by, Ed’s penchant for riddles is a weakness Oswald cannot permit. Especially not when the balance of power between them is already intolerably weighted in Ed’s favour, with the near fatal injuries sustained during Oswald’s escape from Galavan still far from healed.

For the most part Oswald is able to maintain an acceptable level of dignity. The bullet wounds and various other lacerations slow his movements, but he is still capable of seeing to the majority of his own needs.

With but one, unfortunate, exception.

The matter of bathing.

Shameful as it was to admit, the dexterity required to navigate himself in and out of the tub, already trying due to his damaged leg, had proven insurmountable.

Alone, at least.

Hence his current circumstance – Ed behind him in the bath, long body filling the space so completely that the soles of his feet actually brace against the other end, while Oswald lies atop of him, practically cradled against Ed’s chest.

Yet, to be fair to the man, despite the intimacy Ed had embarked on the whole thing with an air of clinical detachment. His efficient, no nonsense manoeuvring of them both into position and methodical swipes of soapy flannel across Oswald’s skin soon calming any embarrassment that had flared when they were stripping in preparation. Enough that by the time Ed started to deftly knead shampoo into Oswald’s too long neglected hair Oswald’s tension was near bled out, and when Ed started humming Gertrude’s lullaby as he worked Oswald found himself joining in with the refrain.

This is the first time Oswald has shared a bath since he was a child. And though the present hardly compares to those infantile times with his mother, there’d been a moment, perhaps, when just for an instant the music and gentle splash of water, the tickle of bubbles and touch of caring hands had evoked those happier, more innocent times.

Perhaps that was the reason he’d almost smiled at Ed’s riddle.

Perhaps.

“Give up?” Ed presses, voice lifting with now familiar child-like glee.

Oswald turns his head just enough to catch half of Ed’s smirk and the gleam of excitement in his eye – all the brighter without his glasses, currently perched in the soap dish above the sink.

Misleading, that gleam, Oswald has fast discovered.

He remembers it now from their first meeting – a lifetime ago it seems. Back when the name Edward Nygma had been nothing but words, forgotten even in the hearing of them. Ed had ambled up, babbling some other riddle and inane facts about penguins, all with that same gleam in his eyes.

Oswald had taken it as stupidity then, the look of a simpleton. Had been inclined to hold to that assumption, even, when he’d woken to the man looming over him with that same cherub-like expression, offering him water with a clownish blue and white straw.

Until, without missing a beat or dropping his innocent smile for a moment, Ed had spoken of murder, and laughed.

Then again, when they’d been entertaining themselves with the delectable Mr. Leonard, that bright eyed look of unbridled joy had come again. Never dampened, even with splatters of blood pooling over Ed’s lashes.

But equally, it was there when they sang together sometimes at the piano, and when Ed found they shared a taste for the same cuisine.

So – misleading.

It was a look that could mean anything from ‘I made pineapple fritters for dessert!’ to ‘I’ve just thought of the most depraved way of hurting you,’ and if there was a way of telling the difference Oswald had yet to learn it.

To see it now, at a time so wholly at Ed’s mercy, is terrifying.

Or perhaps, exhilarating.

Not wishing to show either emotion, Oswald rolls his eyes in an affectation of boredom.

“Enlighten me,” he mutters.

The way Ed’s tongue darts out quickly to wet his lips, grin stretching wider, tells Oswald at once that he’s made a mistake.

Or maybe he hasn’t.

Maybe he knew what he was inviting.

The riddle was hardly a challenge after all, and as Ed bends forward Oswald finds his own lips parting slightly to welcome Ed’s mouth against his own.

_I can be given or stolen, but never held. Useless to one, but bliss for two._

A kiss.

As soon as their lips touch, Oswald grips the side of the bathtub tight, body tensing in expectation of what’s to come.

Considering his creativity when it comes to torture, there’s no telling what sexual perversions Ed might have.

Pain is a certainty.

Humiliation? Likely.

Survival?

Unknown.

Perhaps it wasn’t a question of wanting and welcoming so much as resignation. Abuse is almost a way of life for Oswald at this point – it was only a matter of time, he supposes, before Ed joined the countless others in inflicting it upon him. Despite the man’s assurance that he bore no ill intent.

Though he does wish Ed had chosen to take advantage in some other way. Plain old physical torture Oswald has more than enough practice enduring, but when it comes to sexual matters his experience is rather… less.  

To say Oswald is surprised when Ed pulls back after no more than a single, chaste peck is an understatement.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.” Ed sucks his bottom lip for a moment, sheepish, while Oswald just stares. “Don’t worry, it’s just a riddle,” Ed shrugs, leaning back again. Still tense, Oswald flinches when Ed lifts a hand, but it’s only to wave unthreatening in the air as he continues. “I know you’re not interested in that kind of thing.”

“I – ” Oswald blinks, his grip on the tub easing as he uses the side instead as leverage to twist himself around some more. “I’m not – what kind of-? – why do you – why do you say that?” he stammers, the gentle tilt of Ed’s head and soft, unassuming curve of his smile only adding to Oswald’s confusion.

“Observation,” Ed responds. “You’re a very powerful man, Mr. Penguin. You could have your pick of sexual partners.”

Such a claim would sound in turn sycophantic and presumptuous from anyone else, but Ed is often matter-of-fact about oddest things, managing to reduce the most awkward, intimate or even taboo of topics to a straight forward conversation that Oswald only grasps the unconventional nature of much later. This, he suspects, will be such an occasion.

“When you were head of the crime syndicates especially,” Ed continues. “I mean – ” A breath of laughter exposes a flash of white teeth. “You were the King of Gotham, anyone would have jumped at the chance to please you. I know that the others often took lovers. It – ” His hand waves again, accompanied by an eyeroll this time. “It caused a lot of trouble at work. Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned and all that. Or men, it turns out. Crimes of passion can be…” His nose crinkles for a moment, though it’s hard to say whether in distaste or delight. “Very messy… And Miss Mooney and Detective Bullock – ” This time distain is clear in both his scowl and tone, Oswald notes, not without appreciation. There is no love lost between him and Harvey Bullock either. “ – definitely had something… _going on_ , they weren’t even subtle, everyone knew… but I digress.” His gaze snaps back to Oswald. “My point is – ” and he points his finger for emphasis, “ – you never… _indulged_. Not once.”

“Oh, you know that for a fact do you?” Oswald counters. Not defensive – because well, as it happens, Ed _is_ right – merely critical of the certainty. Ed makes it sound incontestable, when his claim is little more than assumption, surely?

“I know that Gotham paparazzi are as unscrupulous as our politicians,” Ed answers, undeterred. “A sexual scandal involving _The_ Penguin? That would be big news. If anyone so much as held your hand, we would have heard about it. Trust me.”

Fair point.

Though it’s curious to think of Ed following not only news but _lack_ of news of him. There are few others, if any, who would have been so diligent in their research. Few indeed who would have bothered to research him at all. And really, the very last thing Oswald expected from his ascent to the throne was a _fan_.

As has often been the case since he woke up in Ed’s apartment, Oswald doesn’t know whether to feel flattered or disconcerted. There is a fine line between fan and stalker.

“Now there are multiple reasons for apparent celibacy, of course,” Ed presses, on a roll. “But if we go by the logic of Occam’s Razor, that the simplest solution is the most likely, then I figure for you it’s probably just – ” He spreads his fingers out from a point to a flat open palm in a ‘volia’ type gesture. “ – disinclination.”

There’s a pause as Oswald works through the argument and Ed’s self-assured conclusion.

“…huh,” he says.

Ed curls his fingers into his palm.

“Am I wrong?”

Oswald takes a moment to savour the quiver of uncertainty in Ed’s voice, the way his eyes grow dim and tiny lines begin to bunch up between them. In Oswald’s experience thus far it’s been rare for Ed to be wrong, about anything, so it’s gratifying to see him struggle with the prospect of his own fallibility.

Unfortunately in this instance, as with so many when it comes to Oswald specifically, Ed is _not_ wrong. Not at all.

It’s not that Oswald is opposed to carnal pleasures – on the contrary, he’ll gladly satisfy himself. It’s just that for the most part he doesn’t feel the urge, and certainly doesn’t see the need to engage in such matters with a partner.

But explaining this has earned him anything from disbelief to scorn to outright violence in the past, and while Ed’s manner suggests there is every chance he may be the first to offer an alternative, to even show understanding, in the end Oswald decides not to risk it. He just shakes his head.

This sees Ed light up again, but just for a moment, his returning smile dropping as soon as it forms as he continues to scan Oswald’s, no doubt notably distrustful, expression.

“Oh, forgive me,” he says, hand dropping to his side with a quiet splash. “I didn’t mean to offend.” And his face does that _thing_ that hasn’t failed to disarm Oswald yet, lips flattening and folding in, eyes growing soft with small creases at their far corners.

Oswald knows better than anyone how looks can be deceiving, but this seems so much like genuine sympathy. Like Ed really _cares_. Like Oswald _really matters_.

No one looks at Oswald like that.

Not since –

And she won’t – not ever again –

Last time Ed looked at him this way Oswald had all but broken down, sharing childhood memories through tears that he’d never even considered revealing to anyone – or well, perhaps Jim Gordon, one day.

This time he determines not to be so open. Their situation has him vulnerable enough as it is.

“You didn’t,” is all he offers, twisting round again so the kindness in Ed’s expression doesn’t tempt him further.

There’s silence after that. Not fearful – Oswald’s suspicions of foul play on Ed’s part are swayed for now – but not quite companionable either.

As he muses on whether to request an end to the bath altogether, because really he must be clean enough by now, Oswald gathers some of the bubbles floating beside him into a circle and cups them in his hands. It’s nice to be able to hold something delicate, something almost pure. He’s always liked that about a bath – the cleanliness of it. Submerged in water, cut off from the blood and horror of the outside world, he can almost believe himself innocent. For a while.

He lifts the cluster of bubbles to his lips, but before he can do more there’s a gentle press of hands to his shoulders and a gush of air past his cheek.

Ed’s breath catches the bubbles just right and they scatter upwards and out, most of them popping after too long in the cold air, but some of them making it back to the water further down the tub.

There’s a hum of laughter. Then Ed’s fingers curl lightly about the top of Oswald’s arms as he leans forward.

“But you know, endorphins _are_ known to greatly benefit the healing process.”

It takes a moment for Oswald to realise this is Ed persisting with their former conversation. When he does it’s with a loud, disbelieving ‘HA!’

“Friend,” he starts, secure enough again to feel able to use the endearment. “Are you trying to seduce me? Because, while I’m no expert, I don’t think riddles and science are considered typically effective.”

“Yes, but…” Ed’s voice lowers to a whisper, the words curling hot inside Oswald’s ear and he shivers at the pop of goose bumps down his neck. “You’re not a typical man… are you, Mr. Penguin?”

Breath catches in Oswald’s throat, making him gasp.

The praise, Ed’s particular and overly respectful use of his moniker and the way he seems so very very _eager_ to please makes for a potent combination.

Never in his life has Oswald considered himself _desirable_ , let alone found himself the object of another’s desire – despite his mother’s insistence to the contrary. Yet there’s a distinctive pressure growing against the small of Oswald’s back that proves both things very much the case in this instance.

It’s surreal. And delicious.

‘Disinclined’ he may be. But to experience someone _wanting_ physical intimacy with him – someone wanting _him_ – _That_ is irresistible.

“Well…” Oswald coughs, mouth suddenly dry. “If you think it will aid my recovery, then by all means…”  

Ed doesn’t need more encouragement, right hand moving down Oswald’s body at once, sliding slick and soapy along Oswald’s arm before dipping underwater and touching his hip. Meanwhile, Ed rubs his nose round the back of Oswald’s ear and into his hair, inhaling deeply.

“Oh, I think it’ll do more than that…” he mutters, swinging his left arm over Oswald’s shoulder so he can press a palm to his chest, careful to avoid the wounds about his ribs, and draw Oswald flush against him.

Just moments ago the ease of Ed’s manhandling would have been terrifying – proving Oswald’s suspicions a reality. But now it leaves Oswald feeling, paradoxically, _safe_. Not taken advantage of, but taken care of. Especially with the way Ed’s wondering hand slides around his inner thigh and simply settles there, making no move to claim or even touch his cock, Ed’s thumb just lightly swirling the water between his legs. Soft and slow.

Ed’s kisses, when they start, are much the same – wet, feathery touches down Oswald’s jaw.

It’s all very… sweet.

Sickeningly so, truth be told, after long minutes of the same. The safety in the tenderness fast turning to boredom.

Well. So much for that.

Oswald breathes out disappointment in a heavy, drawn out sigh. Which is when, as if on cue, Ed chooses to bite down _hard_ on his neck, turning the sigh to a breathless yelp.

The pressure continues, relentless, until Oswald is squirming, skin raw and burning as Ed continues to scratch and pull with his teeth. Small cries and moans escape Oswald unbidden, despite the way he bites down on his own lip to curb them and _still_ Ed doesn’t stop.   

Since this was at his invitation it seems craven to object now, but oh it _hurts_ , and is hardly the benefit Ed had so coyly offered to provide.

Just as Oswald’s tongue begins to shape the first syllables of defeat, however, is when Ed _finally_ releases him, exposing Oswald’s teased and tortured flesh to the open air. The sharp cold after the opposing heat of Ed’s mouth stings, a lot, but it’s a welcome, knowable pain after the surprise and uncertainty of Ed’s onslaught and Oswald pants through it in relief.

Time to put an end to this, he thinks, and let his friend know that his art of seduction is sorely lacking.

Only Ed stops him short once again, speaking low in his ear.

“I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your attention, my dear Penguin – ” The change in address does not go unnoticed by Oswald, nor does the additional possessive. “ – that you’re in a rather… precarious position.” Ed chuckles – a deep, dark rumble from the back of his throat. “I know it hasn’t escaped mine.” And all of a sudden the water, up till now a pleasant enough temperature, no longer seems warm enough. “I mean, I could do anything to you. Anything at all. And how could you stop me?”

Oswald holds very still, considering his options, but with Ed’s arms curled securely about him they are dishearteningly limited. Perhaps if he’d refused Ed’s offer he would have had a better chance of escaping the man’s clutches, but as it is a fight is all but impossible.

Had this been Ed’s plan all along? The cute riddle, the chaste kiss, all his seeming sweetness and light merely a ruse to trap Oswald here, a lamb led meekly to slaughter? Or rather, a bird to its cage.

He curses himself for being so easily fooled. To have let himself believe, even for a second, that he was _safe_ here, that Ed _cared_ , what was he thinking? Ed had even told him, hadn’t he? – a man should answer to no one but himself. And here Ed was, doing just that.

But – no. Ed had _helped_ him. Fed him. Clothed him. Coaxed him through his grief. That kindness… it couldn’t _all_ have been an act. Could it?

“Perhaps you think I won’t. Because I haven’t. And I said I wouldn’t,” Ed continues and for fuck’s sake, is the man a mind reader? “But you and I both know – people lie…”

Ed’s fingers dig into Oswald’s thigh and Oswald’s breath grows laboured, breaking free in harsh stutters.

“So you just… you can’t be _sure_ , can you?”

“Ed, I don’t – ” Oswald tries but –

“Shh!”

Ed leans further in, putting them cheek to cheek, close enough that Oswald can feel the other man’s smile as it grows.

“Do you hear that?” Ed asks, continuing before Oswald can even begin to formulate a response. “Oh my. Your heart is beating _very fast_ now.” There’s a pressure to the left of Oswald’s chest and he realises Ed has placed his palm directly over his heart. “You’re either terribly excited… or terribly afraid.”

The pressure against Oswald’s back, grown constant enough to be nearly forgotten, pulses and grows. Is that what this is about then? Ed getting off on Oswald’s fear? He could work with that perhaps. Oswald is very, very good at being afraid.

“Oooor,” Ed begins again, either ignoring his own arousal, or savouring it. “Do you know what I think?”

There’s pause enough after this to allow a response, so Oswald makes one. He doesn’t try for bravado, doesn’t try to curb the tremble in his voice – if Ed sees how scared he is, perhaps that will be enough to satisfy him. And once satisfied, perhaps he’ll let Oswald go.

“No… I don’t…”

“I think – ” There’s that gleeful tone again. “ – a man who lives the way you do. In the dark. Seeped in blood.” As he talks Ed scratches slow circles over Oswald’s chest with his nails. “Always fighting to stay one step ahead of his enemies. Never knowing when or where they might strike. Never. Quite. Safe.” The circling stops and all of Ed’s nails dig into Oswald’s skin at once. “I think a man like that needs to be afraid. I think, they _like_ the fear. It’s what makes them feel alive. I think – ” It’s then for the first time that Ed’s other hand moves from Oswald’s thigh to between his legs. “ – it’s the one thing – ” Ed’s fingers brush over his balls, nails scratching, making Oswald’s heart jolt. While other parts of him, unexpectedly, start to swell. “ – that truly – ” Then Ed’s hand is there around his cock. A shocking grip, but more shocking still is the way Oswald’s cock pulses inside it. “ – excites them,” Ed finishes, hand moving in a firm and steady rhythm, while Oswald gasps long and deep in time – down _in_ , up _out_ , down _in_ , up _out_.

His heart continues to hammer, frantic against the cage of his ribs and beneath the pressure points of Ed’s nails. That sharp, painful circle a constant reminder that Ed has all the control here – Ed, with his unnervingly childish bloodlust, who giggles like a schoolboy when inflicting a deathblow, who has Oswald in a tub full of water and needs only make the slightest effort to push him down. Ed, whose desires, whose likely course of action, Oswald cannot even guess at anymore. Impossible to predict. Incapable of exploiting.

Yes, the fear is real. Wild. Consuming.

It prickles under his skin, makes him hyperaware – the cold air across his upper body an icy blast, the water covering the rest of him a boiling cocoon. Ed’s nails are piercing blades and oh, _oh_ , _OH_ , every squeeze of Ed’s hand a flame, coursing through his body, burning ever stronger.

A burst of laughter trickles through the pounding blood in Oswald’s ears and he senses more than feels the way Ed dips his head back in delight. Turning is difficult with his body pinned down like it is, but Oswald manages to twist his head enough to catch Ed’s eye, to see his eyebrows lift and lips press together, smug, around his smile. The arrogance makes Oswald grit his teeth, but the rage only adds to the growing rush inside him, hips thrusting along with Ed’s movements seeming of their own accord.

He struggles to form some thought, some plan, but there’s nothing but sensation and Oswald is powerless to do anything but close his eyes and ride it out.

When the bite of Ed’s nails eases, it’s not relief Oswald feels but frustration – no, no, he’s _close!_ He just needs a little more pain. A little – a little more danger.

He’s willing to beg now if his has to, but finds himself spared the indignity by Ed’s hand at his throat. Ed’s fingers wrap easily about his neck and press, cutting Oswald’s airway to a slither, and his fear spikes into panic.

Without Ed’s arm across his chest both Oswald’s hands are free and he lifts them on instinct, clawing at the obstruction.

But Ed is immovable as stone.

The rasping, too shallow breaths he allows soon leave Oswald dizzy and lightheaded.

He starts to thrash, or tries to.

Managing a few feeble kicks of his legs.

Twitches really.

“The more you struggle,” Ed tells him calmly. “The more oxygen you consume. So I really wouldn’t advise it.”

And through it all the hand around Oswald’s cock doesn’t let up.

Moving faster.

Squeezing tighter.

White spots start encroaching on Oswald’s vision and his fingers grow weak, falling from their attempts to prise Ed’s hand away.

And Ed continues. Both hands teasing Oswald to the edge of uncertainty until he doesn’t know what he craves more, the wild pleasure of release or dark tumble into the void. He can only close his eyes and pray at least some kind of climax hits him soon.

“Good boy…”

The words seem to float down from far away and it’s only the warm press of Ed’s lips to his temple and the feel of his mouth shaping the rest that tells Oswald it is in fact Ed speaking.

“Such a good boy.”

So rarely does Oswald hear praise, much less voiced with tenderness. It sparks a different kind of emotion in him altogether and it’s precisely the catalyst he needs. His body stiffens and in that very instant, right on the cusp, Ed removes the hand on his throat.

Then everything is beautifully, blindingly physical. Oswald’s whole world reduced to nothing but the sweet taste of much needed air and the crashing wave after wave of his release, body utterly outside his control, shaking, head falling back against Ed’s shoulder, weak high-pitched whimpers at the crux of each desperate, gulping breath.

And once it’s done, a warm and wonderful heaviness settles in, making Oswald feel as though he’s sinking deep deep underwater. Eased down and down and down by the gentle slowing of Ed’s hand into a thick, engulfing calm.

It’s overwhelming and wholly outside Oswald’s power to resist. So he doesn’t, instead shifting his head to a more comfortable position in the crook of Ed’s neck while he waits for his breathing to return to normal.

The absurdity isn’t lost on him – to be curling up to the man who was moments ago trying to strangle him.

Perhaps it’s the swirl of endorphins Ed had promised, and delivered, in his system, compromising his ability to think clearly. Or perhaps it’s the way Ed’s arousal has dissipated and the hand so recently used to torment Oswald’s cock lifted from the water entirely. But Oswald feels in no danger anymore. Feels once again that bizarre sense of safety and security. A comfort that the light touch of Ed’s fingertips soothing across his brow only intensifies.

“… _the fire has gone out_ …” Ed mutters, half singing half humming as he threads his fingers in and out of Oswald’s hair, crafting it into a rough approximation of Oswald’s usual style. “… _nothing can warm me more, than my, my mother’s love_ …”  

Once Ed reaches the chorus, Oswald feels relaxed enough to take control of himself again and luxuriates in the welcome strain along his muscles as he stretches, back arching, toes curling. He takes in a free and easy breath, blinks his eyes open and sits forward.

“Feel better?” Ed asks and Oswald turns round to a perfectly innocent expression, Ed’s lips curved oh so slightly at the corner, eyebrows raised in question. He shows no desire at all for reciprocation. He looks, in fact, for all the world like nothing has happened between them to warrant it, as if nothing about what has transpired is in any way out of the ordinary.

If it wasn’t for the lingering buzz of afterglow across his skin Oswald might be inclined to doubt recent events himself. It seems hard to credit the man before him with the near paralysing fear he remembers.

Perhaps it had been paranoia more than anything that had sparked Oswald’s terror and Ed had never been a threat at all. But then Oswald rubs a hand about his neck and winces when he finds the still sore bite mark there, evidence of what’s hiding behind Ed’s demure Doctor Jekyll, and he thinks - perhaps not.

“You’re a terrifying man,” he says in lieu of an answer. Adding, as a mark of respect – “Mr. Nygma.”

Ed drops his head with a chuckle.

“Why, thank you,” he smiles, lips stretching wide, exposing his teeth. A Cheshire Cat grin at once inviting and predatory.

And slowly, inch by inch, Oswald grins back.

 

~ **fin** ~


End file.
